Big and Clever (20 page)

Ryan yawns.

“We'll get off then,” he says.

Raks raises his eyebrows.

“It's a bit early isn't it? We need to kill a bit more time in here. They won't open the turnstiles until about half six.”

Ryan shakes his head.

“We're not going straight to Southlands,” he says. “We're going to be making a pit stop on the way. Thought we'd drop in at The Shakespeare, see the LLF lads. Trev won't be there, and Steve might not, but Dave and Chris will be. They practically live in the place.”

We pile our cans and plates onto a tray, then head out of the café and down the back stairs. On the ground floor, pan-pipe music is blasting.
Careless Whisper
. Santa's Grotto has been shut down. According to the
Letchford Argus
last Thursday, they found asbestos in the ceiling. We go through the back doors and into the car park.

Outside, the Christmas lights are twinkling. The whole festive set-up was officially switched on a couple of weeks back. They roped in Paul Butterworth and some local bird who was on
The X Factor
. She was supposed to entertain the crowd with a medley of Christmas songs, but the PA broke down.
Letchford Borough Council. Working For You
. Again.

It's cold and dark in the side streets, and we're not hanging around. Before too long we're coming to the junction near the Industrial Estate and hanging a left down past the shops to The Shakespeare. Since the last time we were down here, Balti Towers Indian Takeaway has gone belly-up. The windows are covered with rough-looking chipboard, daubed over with posters.
Club Majestyk – New Year's Eve All-Nighter
.

The wind's really getting up now. The cross of St George on the front of the pub is fluttering out of control. It looks like it's about to take off. We cut through the car park and along the side of the
Family Beer Garden
, up to the door of the back bar.

Inside, the place is even gloomier and smokier than it was last time. The metal awning's wide open but it's not making much difference. The pub's busier than I remember too. All the seats at the bar are taken. My eyes are drawn down to something glinting around the legs of the stools. Chains, attaching them to the brass rail round the bottom of the bar. I'm sure they weren't there last time.

I nudge Ryan and point at the chains.

“What's that all about then?”

Ryan laughs.

“Just a little extra security measure they put in for match days.”

As we're standing, just inside the door, a bloke wanders past with a black bin bag under his arm. He's a scrawny type, balding, wearing a stained white T-shirt and no jacket. Whatever is inside his bag, it's quite heavy. He gives the bag to the barman. Quick as a flash, the barman has a look inside, then whisks it away, out of sight. He nods his head and hands over a roll of tenners. Bin Bag Man counts the cash, smiles, then wanders back out into the night.

I start looking around for the LLF lads. It doesn't take me long. Ryan was right. Trev and Steve aren't here, but Dave and Chris are. They're sitting over in the corner, under the Spitfire. Dave's got a mauve polo shirt on. Chris is in an expensive-looking cream bomber jacket. Their table is covered in pint glasses and fag ash.

As we start to head over towards them, Dave and Chris see us coming. They both stand up, smiling, shoving their hands in our direction. They look genuinely pleased to see us. We all shake hands and sit down. Dave and Chris are still smiling. They're actually quite a tragic sight without Trev and Steve around. Like a pair of monkeys left behind when the organ grinders have gone home. Now we've arrived it's given them some purpose in life.

Chris gets his wallet out.

“I'll get them in,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his crumpled nose. “Carling all round, yeah?”

Everyone nods.

Chris sets off to the bar. Dave starts looking at the front of Ryan's jacket. He's squinting his eyes, wrinkling his forehead. His eyebrows are almost touching his hairline. He reaches out with his finger, pointing at something.

“Got a little fuckin' spot there,” he says.

As Ryan looks down, Dave whips his finger up and tries to touch Ryan's nose. He's too slow though. Ryan grabs his hand and puts it back on the table.

“Dave,” he says. “That's the oldest and shittiest trick in the book.”

Dave looks a bit sad.

Raks laughs.

“It makes a change from poking holes in beer mats though.”

Pretty soon, Chris is back. He's got four pints wedged between his hands and a fifth one balanced on top. He puts them all down on the table without spilling a drop.

Raks looks amazed.

“Fucking hell Chris,” he says. “How did you manage that?”

Chris grins.

“Years of practise.”

The first pint of the evening goes down very nicely. As I drain the last dregs, I cast my mind back to the way I felt when Ryan first brought us to the pub. It seems like a long time ago now, but it's actually less than three weeks. I think about how anxious I was. How self-conscious. It's not like that this time though. It just feels right.

By quarter past six we're onto the next round. Dave got it in. He paid for it with a fifty-pound note. Whatever it is Dave and Chris do for a living, it certainly pays well. The hours are nice and flexible too. I once asked Ryan what it was. He was a bit noncommittal. Just said it had something to do with import and export.

My phone starts beeping. I take it out of my pocket. I've got a text. It's from Colin, the assistant manager of Thurston Dynamo.
Where r u?
it says. I stare at the screen for a few seconds, thinking about making something up, texting back to say I'm ill, but all in all, I just can't be bothered. I push the phone back into my pocket. I take a swig of my pint and blow out a breath.

Ryan raises his eyebrows at me.

“What's up?” he asks. “Woman trouble?”

I shake my head.

“I'm supposed to be at football training tonight,” I tell him. “I've just got a text asking me where I am. I'll be getting it in the neck on Sunday.”

Ryan shrugs.

“Tell them to shove it. It's kids' stuff. I stopped playing years ago.”

Raks has been listening in.

“Were you any good?” he asks.

Ryan looks down.

“I was OK. I was on the books of the Letchford Town Youth Academy in my last couple of years at primary school. Went to the School Of Excellence, stuff like that.”

“Shit,” I say. I'm impressed. The Letchford scouts have been to loads of games where I've been playing, but I've never had so much as a sniff of interest. Ryan must have been a pretty decent player.

“So why did you give it up, then?” Raks asks.

“I didn't, really. I got sent off playing for my school in Year Seven. Some bastard kept kicking me, so I butted him. Broke his nose. Ended up getting banned from all representative matches for two years.”

“Two years?” I say. “Fucking hell, that's a bit harsh. In our Sunday League I've seen lads punch refs and only get banned for a couple of months.”

Ryan pulls a face.

“It'd have been a lot less than two years, but there was this teacher who had it in for me. Mrs McDowell. She got onto the Schools FA. She just wouldn't let it lie until I'd been properly punished.”

I nod. I take another swig of my pint.

“So what did Letchford Town do?”

Ryan places his hands flat on the table. He looks at his fingernails.

“They let me go.”

“Shit,” Raks says. “I'm surprised you still support them, after that.”

Ryan shakes his head.

“It wasn't Letchford's fault. They'd have kept me on, but there was no point if I couldn't play for two years. They appealed on my behalf, went cap in hand to the Schools FA, but the Schools FA are just a bunch of old twats in blazers. They weren't going to change their minds. So I just said fuck it.”

“And that was the end of that?” I ask.

Ryan nods. He downs what's left of his Carling and slams the glass on the table.

“And that was the end of that.”

We all go quiet. I take another sip of beer, glancing across at Ryan. There's sadness in his eyes. I try to think of something to say, but nothing seems appropriate. From the expression on Raks's face, I can see that his mind is working in the same way as mine. The whole mood has gone right down. Suddenly there's a flash. A lighted match bounces off the rim of my pint glass. The match lands on the table-top and fizzles out in a patch of spilt beer.

I look up. Dave's smirking. He shakes a box of Swan Vestas in the air. It's his latest prank. He pushes the box open, lights another match and lobs it across at Ryan. Before the match has even had a chance to land, he's lit a third one and chucked it at Raks.

“Come on you miserable fuckers,” he says. “You've got faces like a row of fuckin' smacked arses.”

Everyone laughs. Just for once, Dave's need to entertain has been put to some use.

I reach into my jeans pocket and get out a twenty-pound note.

“I'll get the next round in,” I say. “It's my birthday today, so I'm a bit more flush than usual.”

Dave holds his hands up.

“Don't be fuckin' soft. If it's your birthday, the fuckin' drinks are on us.”

Chris stands up. He looks at Dave.

“Pints and chasers, yeah?”

Dave nods.

Chris makes two trips to the bar this time. He's back with five Carlings first, then he follows it up with five tumblers of neat whisky. As he sits down, he raises his pint glass.

“Happy birthday to Tom, then, yeah?”

We all pick up our pints and take a mouthful.

“Happy birthday Tom,” everyone says.

I'm touched.

“Cheers.”

Chris smiles. He puts his pint down and picks up his whisky, shoving the other tumblers across the table towards the rest of us.

“Come on then, Tom,” he says. “Lets see what you're made of, yeah?” He downs his whisky in one, and sits grinning at me.

I've been feeling quite nice and mellow, but now I'm on edge. This is a challenge. I pick the tumbler up and raise it to my mouth. The smell of the whisky makes my eyes water. I take a breath, then knock it back in one gulp. I swallow, then put the glass back on the table as the whisky burns down my throat.

Dave and Chris start to clap.

“Fuckin' hell,” Dave says. “The lad's a fuckin' natural.”

I laugh. I can feel the whisky going to work inside me.

“You could say it's in my genes,” I say.

Dave puts his whisky away in one, then laughs at Raks and Ryan as they struggle to keep up, coughing and spluttering, eventually draining their glasses. He shakes his head slowly.

“You two are fuckin' piss-poor,” he says. He lifts my arm by the wrist. “Tom's the champion.”

I grin. I know he's only arsing around, but it still feels good. I check my watch. It's nearly ten to seven. Fifty-five minutes to kick-off. A nice little burst of adrenalin courses through me. I take a swig of my third pint and look around. Over at the bar, something dodgy is going on. A couple of lads in McKenzie sweatshirts are counting out a wad of notes, passing the money across to the barman. He ducks under the counter for a second or two then reappears with the black plastic bag we saw earlier. It's handshakes all round, then the lads are off, the one in front carrying the bin bag.

Chris has another swig of Carling. He looks at Raks, Ryan and me.

“Whitbourne tonight then,” he says. “They're usually up for a bit of aggro. You boys ready, yeah?”

Raks nods.

“Too right.” He's pissed and he's brimming with confidence. “We fucked up the Castleton mob, we bricked the Ashborough buses. I shouldn't have thought we'll have too much trouble tonight. We're on a roll. Someone will write a book on the NLLF one day.”

Dave smiles.

“Funny you should fuckin' mention that,” he says. “A bloke was going to write about us once.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. It sounds like a piss-take, but from the look on his face, I can see that he's not joking.

Chris joins in.

“Yeah,” he says. “That's right. It was back in 1990. The start of the season after the World Cup in Italy. Football was dead popular – Gazza and all that shit, yeah? – but there was quite a bit of aggro going off on the terraces. It was all over the newspapers.”

Dave nods. He adjusts his identity bracelet and takes up the story.

“This fuckin' journalist latched himself onto us. Jeremy something, his name was. Wanted us to call him Jez. Fuckin' bright lad. Public school, just out of Oxford. You know the sort. Some geezer had told him we were the top brass in the LLF. He wanted to follow us around for a season, see how it really was for lads like us, then write a book about it.”

Ryan looks up from his phone and scowls.

“A posh kid slumming it, then.”

Dave carries on.

“He told us he was going to produce a fuckin'
serious anthropological study
. Whatever that means. We just said fuckin' yeah, okay. Whatever. Thought there might be a few quid in it.”

Chris starts laughing. He lights a fag.

“He didn't last long though, old Jez, yeah? He tried a bit too hard to be one of the boys.”

Dave's laughing his Muttley laugh again, shoulders jogging up and down.

“First game of the season he got a right fuckin' kicking from some Mitcham fans. The next weekend he got arrested for being drunk and disorderly when we went to Peterborough. The week after that, someone pinched all his fuckin' stuff. Tape recorders, microphones, electrical bits and pieces. The works.”

Chris taps his fag into the ashtray. He frowns, looking thoughtful.

“To this day, I can't imagine who'd have pinched his gear, yeah? Can you think who it might have been, Dave?”